Of Guidebooks and Sushi
by Klaraholic
Summary: She goes to Tokyo first. She doesn't mean to, she just...does. Because there's nowhere else to go. Her mom is in a coffin. Damon gives her the weepy eyes, Bonnie is gone, Elena spends most of the funeral following after her Salvatore. And Stefan doesn't want her. ( klaroline. caroline centric. sides of daroline, steroline, delena, bonenzo, stebekah. )


She goes to Tokyo first.

She doesn't mean to, she just... _does_. Because there's nowhere else to go. Her mom is in a coffin. Damon gives her the weepy eyes, Bonnie is gone, Elena spends most of the funeral following after her Salvatore. And Stefan doesn't want her. Stefan doesn't _want_ her. She's an idiot, she decides. Because every little touch she gets from him, every little speech, every little 'if one single part of you came back to _check on me_ -' it's made up. All in her naive, Caroline Forbes 'true love can conquer all' mentality. No one checks on her. No one cares. And when she gets into her car after her mom's funeral, after realizing that all of this is just biding her time until the next chaotic bad guy that streaks through Mystic Falls - she leaves.

She doesn't realize that she's going to the airport until she's there. It's in Richmond. A good three hours away from the Falls she grew up in. Her phone has been lighting up with a constant stream of messages the whole ride, and she throws it out the window somewhere past the freeway. The irony of it though, is that it really is _freeing_. Caroline has always held this theory about airports, and it's this: no one cares what the hell you do at an airport. Case in point: the woman next to her is sexting her husband's brother. The kid across from her has gotten tangled in his kid-leash ( who even _invented_ that, anyway? ), a couple has been making out for the past ten minutes. And if they look close enough, if they shift their gaze and slant their eyes - they'll see a girl. Cheeks streaked with tears, curls falling limply around her face, standing in the middle of it all clutching an envelope she's had buried for years, all while she's in the dress that she wore to her mom's burial.

The ticket is for New Orleans. And she got it two years ago. On her birthday. No note, no drawing, no signature. Just a first class ticket to the big easy. Ya know, in case. She doesn't text a thank you, and he doesn't expect one. But she keeps it. Tucked away in the back of a Microbiology textbook. And now it's crushed in her hand. The lady at the desk argues with her for an hour and a half until she hits her with her full on 'I am Caroline Forbes _hear me roar_ ' self - and then she's got a coach ticket to Tokyo.

She doesn't know how she makes the decision, she just does. They ask where she wants the ticket to, the woman's smile is all saccharine and venom and hatred for the blonde. And she blurts the first place that comes to mind. Not Rome. Not paris. "Tokyo." It doesn't feel right until the ticket is already printed, shoved in her hand, and dismissed with a clipped ' _have a nice trip_.' Tokyo feels right. She's not in the mindset for Rome, for gladiators and history and architecture. She needs to work up to Paris, to be able to stomach that level of romance and beauty. Her mom would have loved Paris. And it's been a dream of hers since she first watched Breakfast and Tiffany's at age eight. So Tokyo seems right. Nothing bad can happen in Tokyo, right?

Wrong.

It takes her three days to realize that she hates Tokyo. It's so...crowded. Jam packed with people everywhere she goes. She has no money, though she does get an envelope with a credit card with her name on it. When she calls, the lady at the bank tells her that a certain D. Salvatore set it up. Elena doesn't know. If Elena knew, Elena would have showed up along with the card. Stefan would have dragged her back but Damon...good old Damon - Damon knows that space is key for these things. Because her mom's funeral wasn't the worst days. And if anyone understands the need to postpone the bad days - it's him. She borrows some random girl's phone in a nightclub to text him thank you. Just that. Nothing more. Just ' _thanks_.' The only response she gets before handing the girl's phone back is ' _try the sushi_.'

She does. And spends the rest of the week curled over the toilet in her hotel room throwing up the contents of her stomach. _Fuck you Damon_.

She hates Tokyo. Its crowded, its industrialized, she's beginning to see why he had that little tilt to his lips, the spark in his eyes when he offered it to her. Asshole. People bump into her when she walks places, she can't breathe on the subway or the train or whatever they call it hear. She doesn't speak the language so most of the time she wants to cry when some old lady starts yelling at her in a language she doesn't understand. The food is bad. It tastes nothing like the stuff she used to get with her mom on their nights. The air seems thick, everything is loud and crowded and cramped.

The bad days happen in Tokyo. And she rides them out like her mom would want. Curled into her bed in her hotel room. She's alone. And she's never been good at being alone. She hates silence and maybe that's the one thing that's good about Tokyo - there's never silence. The bad days turn into weeks, and then months and then one day when she's strolling down the street, shoulders bumping into her, people talking on cell phones, the features of her face pulled down into a frown - she gets this idea. And then the idea turns into a reality when she goes to the airport again, thanking god that someone there speaks her language.

And then she goes to Rome.

Rome is good. Rome is far better than Tokyo was. But there's something missing. She reads every word in every museum she goes to, and she goes to them all. She memorizes the curves and juts and crumbles of the colosseum. But she doesn't understand it. She remembers studying it, sure. Remembers groaning in frustration and hurling a textbook against the wall after the third paragraph of 'This guy was descended from that guy who was the son of this guy who was the son of this guy who was the son of that guy-' all the way until it's connected back to some historical person that she's supposed to care about but _doesn't_. At first she loves Rome. She fits in there, better than she did in Tokyo.

A cute guy buys her drinks and flirts with her. She goes home with him, thinking maybe the weight of a body is what she needs next to her. But the sex is bad. Well, it's good, but it's hollow. She lays there for the rest of the night and if she closes her eyes and tilts her head and slants her perception just a bit - he looks like Tyler. Kinda.

Bonnie is alive. Damon ( why is it always _Damon?_ ) gets word to her. Figures she ought to know. Relief floods through her, and she calls. For the first time in months, she calls home. To hear Bonnie's voice. To hear about Elena and her latest fight with Damon. She even talks to Stefan for a bit. They ask where she is, but before she can think up a lie, she's talking to Damon. Or, rather, he's talking. She can hear him walking, heavy foot falls that lead to the fading of voices behind him. He talks about how Stefan wears more hair gel when she's gone and how Bonnie is pissing him off and about the fucking herbs she puts into everything - and then, when the voices in the background fade. He tells her about the headstone he chose for her mom. That he sold her house. Boxed all her stuff. That its in the basement at the Salvatore house. Ya know, if she ever needs it.

She doesn't talk. She just listens. And when he hangs up, he tells her to try the Bucatini all'amatriciana - like she knows what that is. The call is long. Hours long, she realizes, when she looks up and sees that the sun is set and her room is dark. But there's an odd lightness to her that she hadn't fell before. They're okay. Without her, they're okay. The world hasn't crumbled yet, people are happy, and the world can exist when she's not holding it up.

She's at a vineyard when she does it. She doesn't plan on it, which is weird, because she's Caroline Forbes and for the past year, she hasn't planned anything about her travels. She gets his number from the witch working at the coffee shop. Because she knows he keeps tabs on her. And the woman only smiles when she hands her a napkin with a few digits scrawled on it. She's at a vineyard when she tugs out her phone and takes a picture of the bottle of wine. Sending nothing but a simple question mark, he'll fill in the rest.

It takes him three minutes to respond with a different name. Different year. And she smiles, pocketing her phone before setting off to find it.

The bottle tastes like heaven, and she drinks it in one go. Vampire perks: she can't get drunk. She doesn't text him to tell him he's right, or that he most often is. Because this isn't about him. This is about her. And her life. And building something for herself because god knows it didn't happen in college. For the first time she's going without plans. Or a future. But she's finally doing things that she wants. Not what she thinks she wants, not what people need - what she wants. Caroline stays for another three months.

And then she goes to Paris.

There's nothing lacking about Paris. She gets herself a croissant and a coffee from a street vendor and goes to Tiffany's on her second week there, has a little breakfast. At Tiffany's. She grins the whole way home and there's a small skip in her step. She sees the tower, she climbs the tower. Tries the food, meets the people - she loves Paris. She's in love with Paris in a way that she's never been in love with anything in her entire life. It bleeds culture and beauty and romance. And she doesn't feel hollow, not even in the slightest. When people kiss on the bridge, when she sees couples tug one another closer for smiling pictures - she doesn't feel empty or jealous or anything. Because this is for her. And she doesn't look at that anymore and think of who it should be next to her.

The fact that he knows every move she makes crosses her mind a lot. She knows he does. She knows he has people watching her, looking out for her. He doesn't contact her. Doesn't call or write or draw. Everything is on her turf, on her choice, on her ground. Damon and Bonnie send her updates from Mystic Falls. But they don't need her. They don't guilt or pull or nag.

Bonnie and Elena come visit her once in Paris. They plan for a week, and stay for a month. They sleep in the same bed and eat the same food and Caroline shows them her favorite cafe and they all have breakfast at Tiffany's. Elena is gonna take the cure. She thinks Caroline ought to know. She tells her in a quiet voice while the three of them overlook the view of the tower from Caroline's balcony. Elena's gonna take the cure. With Damon. They expect her to be mad. She expects her to be mad - but she can't be. Because that's the happy ending for Elena. Elena's not meant to be a vampire and maybe somewhere along the line, Damon wasn't either.

Caroline says not to text her when Damon gets arrested for first degree murder. Or when he has a hissy fit about diapers. They all laugh, head falling on one another's shoulders and for the first time in forever, she feels completely and utterly whole. She doesn't know where Bonnie and Elena end and she begins, its always been like that with them. But now it's different. They do end. This is where they end.

Elena is cured and married three months later and she doesn't come to the wedding. But its small. Stefan and Bonnie and Matt. Alaric shows up, looking worse for wear after everything that happened with Jo but...but he's okay. He gives Elena away. And Caroline sends Damon and Elena the keys to the villa she bought in Paris, scrawls a little note on the bottom of the deed that Damon should try the sushi. If they're gonna live, they're not gonna live in Mystic Falls. And she's seen enough of Paris, for now.

She's on her last few days when she tries to figure out where she wants to go. Nowhere in the states. Not yet. It's like he freaking senses it though, and maybe it's a wolf thing. A day later she gets a box in the mail. Huge. Heavy. The guy gives her a small glare when she signs for it like who the hell would order something this freaking heavy?

Not her. That's who.

But the postmark is from New Orleans. And she doesn't have to think past that when she peels it open. They're travel books. Some are small and some are thick. She laughs when she opens them, snaps a picture and sends it back to him. There's one for every huge city in the United States. For every city that she never knew she wanted to visit. But there's not one for New Orleans. And they both know why. She doesn't need a guide book for that, she'll have the walking talking guide book himself. Pompous, elitist attitude and all.

They're all annotated though. Pages dog eared, marked, things crossed out and circled, notes written in the margins. She thinks it must have taken him years to do this. And she doesn't realize she's been gone that long. Or maybe he started it before she left. Who cares. She picks up the one for Tokyo, by chance. And thumbs through it, stopping at the restaurant guide when she bursts out laughing. Don't try the sushi, he notes. And draws an arrow to one of the restaurants listed there.

She goes back. Back to Tokyo, she means. Because now it isn't so bad. It's still loud and overpopulated but she's got her book. And her book lists everything. She goes to a restaurant that's been family owned since forever. She asks for the owner, like Klaus instructs, and introduces herself as Caroline. The man's face lights up and he tugs her into the back. She can't understand a word he says, but when he gestures to the small painting on the wall and rambles on, his eyes are glowing and his face lights up and he's so happy that she grins too before looking at the art. Its his. She's seen his style enough to be able to spot it from a mile away.

It's a painting of the restaurant, and after she stares at it for a solid ten minutes, the man gives her a free meal and lets her sit where she can see it. He knows she's coming to every place she goes to. And it doesn't freak her out like it should. It's weirdly comforting, is what it is.

It takes three years, but she goes to every major city in every country. She goes through half the books and when she visits Damon and Elena a year and a half later, she gives them a few. But they don't do much travelling. Damon owns a vineyard and Elena stays at home with their little girl. A spitfire, really. All sass and sweetness who has the world wrapped around her finger. She has a beer with Stefan at a little dive bar in Mexico, laughs when he relays everything that's happened since she left. When they're parting, he hugs her. Tilts his head just slightly so that his face is buried in her hair and whispers that he's sorry. She doesn't ask why. Sorry he couldn't love her like she loved him. Sorry to have told her during her mom's funeral. Sorry that he didn't come after her, that he wasn't there. Sorry that this happened to her. She doesn't say anything in response, just asks him where he's going then. She's actually not all that surprised when he says New Orleans. When he shrugs and rolls his eyes and says that he's got this weakness for sharp-witted blondes that he needs to figure out. Caroline grins, and when he asks her the same question - she shakes her head.

Says she thinks she'll go to Russia.

Bonnie marries Enzo. And Enzo takes the cure for her. Its romantic as hell but kinda weird, she won't deny it. But they're happy. And they're living in Paris, just a short while away from Elena and Damon. At least everyone is happy. Together, somewhat.

Matt dies and she gets the news when she's in a crowded bar, trying to drink her way through a crowd of big tough Russian guys. One of them takes her home when she starts bawling right then and there. He makes her coffee and sits with her and rests a heavy hand on her knee. But that's it. She's not sure when he leaves but he kisses her head when he does. And she mourns for the next four days.

Its another two years before she's ready to make her way back to the States. And she hits Chicago. New York. DC. Seattle. She finishes the books but realizes that she should go back and redo it all, experience it more. But she doesn't want to anymore. Doesn't want to look at it all alone anymore. She wants to go to Rome and Paris again but she doesn't want to spend the night dancing in a club while Bonnie and Elena go home with their men. Not that she's not happy. She is, really. She just doesn't want to keep doing it alone if she doesn't have to.

The stop in Mystic Falls is painful, but she knew it would be. Everything is different, and her mom's grave is there. But she needs to say goodbye one last time. Before she closes this chapter and starts a new one. After that, she gets into her car and drives. Drives until her eyes are bleary and she's tired and the world is a blur around her. Until it's a blur of color and music and life. And until she's got an empty tank of gas and a stomach full of nerves when she knocks on his door.

She keeps tabs on him too, over the years. Wonders if she should text him when she hears about Camille, or Hope, or any of it. She wonders if he'd want to hear from her. But decided against it. He looks different when he opens the door. Older. His hair is longer and his face is thinner. He doesn't wear the necklaces anymore, and it's a shame, because she remembers how therapeutic it was to curl her fingers and yank him closer from those. His curls are more unruly, his hair a dustier shade of brownish blonde. He doesn't smile when he sees her there, and she doesn't really expect him to.

They stand like that for...well, she has to adjust her perception of time when she becomes a vampire, and she hasn't been keeping track over the years, but it feels like forever. She's got this weird suspicion that they should kiss. Or something. But she doesn't kiss him. She steps forward, her arm winding around the back of his neck, pulling her body up and into his, and she hugs him. It takes a moment for him to respond, for his arms to move around her waist, one moving up to let his fingers curl into her hair. Her cheek presses against his shoulder, face turned into his neck, breathing him in. It's been too long, she tells him. And he laughs. Its low and rumbling and warm and she thinks she loves that sound.

He tells her that that's what happens when she forces promises she doesn't want people to keep. And it's her turn to laugh at that. They don't move, not for awhile, not until her calves ache from the way she stands on her tiptoes. Caroline drops back to her flat feet a few moments after that, swallowing and giving him a soft smile. "I finished the books." He brow twitches, lips curling up into a smirk and - there he is. The hybrid. Her hybrid. The one with the looks and the accents and promises.

She takes him to Tokyo. Shows him the little fish market that she walks through, marvels at how she doesn't entirely mind the smell. They don't touch. He sleeps in a separate room, lets her take him all over before he starts showing her the places he couldn't bear to put in the books. Tells her the stories that go along with every inside place he's shared with her. How the man at the restaurant who showed her the painting was dying in a ditch when he found him, how when he gave him his blood to heal him he thought that he must be some kind of _god_. How he sends checks every few years to keep the place up and running.

He tells her about the construction of the buildings and the city. Takes her outside of the city limits to show her the real Tokyo. Speaks the language for her and murmurs low in her ear as he translates a conversation happening across the restaurant. His hands rest heavy on her hips towards the end of their two months there, fingers gently easing her back into his chest when he takes her to the top floor of the tallest building in the city so they can watch the sunset. Its cheesy. But she likes it. Hs lips press against her temple before his nose moves through her hair, inhaling deeply at the same time she lets her body move pliantly into his arms.

He tells her the stories of Rome. Of politics and romance and she's not bored. He makes the endless stream of 'this guy is the son of that guy is the son of that guy' seem interesting. He kisses the curve of her neck in a museum, smirks against the skin there when he smells the perfume he bought her earlier in the week. He snorts at the inaccuracies of some of the plaques, and they argue because as old as he is, he wasn't _there_. He feigns offense, presses a palm to his heart and gives her a wounded look to which she laughs.

They spend three hours when he talks about his daughter. He shows her pictures and she grins and he murmurs about what a little terror she's going to be. She asks questions at the right times, gives him a moment of silence at others. She tells him about her mom, feels his hand brush over her back in a motion of comfort when she stops mid-sentence to swallow down the pain. When they leave, his arm slides around her shoulders and she tucks himself into his chest. He kisses her that night. And he intends to leave it at that, with her at her door, with her cheeks flushed because of his kiss. But she tugs him in with her, and kisses him. Her arms wrapping around the back of his neck, back arching into his as she kicks her shoes off.

The night is spent between sheets with writhing bodies and sweaty skin. She can't seem to figure out where he ends and she begins. Can't figure out why they didn't do this sooner. He pulls everything he can out of her, coaxes one last orgasm out when she's sure she's done for. Her mouth moves lazily over his chest, when they're done, her hair in tangles form his fingers, his slightly damp from sweat. His fingertips trace over her back and he kisses her again, slowly. Happily.

And then they go to Paris.

No one seems surprised when she shows up with him. Literally on his arm. With her smelling a bit like him and him constantly pulling her in closer when they separate for more than a few moments. It's not as awkward as she thinks it is. If anything, there's just banter. The women are tense, and the men cover it with banter. It's weirdly poetic. He gets frustrated, she knows he does, but he works it out with her later when he has her pressed to the brick behind the cafe, when his hand hikes her legs around his waist and he grinds into her and nips at her neck. They work through it. And it becomes a pretty good incentive for when she wants to visit her friends.

She's been to every major city in every country and it's his turn to show her the rest. The small parts, the countryside, the sights that few eyes have seen. Sometimes it's boring or cold or old and she rests her head on his shoulder and lets herself drift to sleep when he drones on about something or someone with some historical purpose. He promised, a really long time ago, a few lifetimes in fact - that he'd show her the world. And he does. In a lot of ways.

They still argue every two moments, she still gets on his case about murder and mayhem and he refuses to change what he is for her. And she doesn't want him to. But they work through it. Against doors and walls and furniture. Sometimes in a bed. Mostly not. She has an entire shelf of guidebooks now in his library, and they're stacked and squished and faded from years of constant reworking, trying to plan the perfect trip to the perfect place. She argues with him about how good the bagels are when you buy them from a vendor in New York and he huffs and grumbles and glares. It's not perfect, but it shouldn't be. She doesn't want it to be. She just wants it to be them. And it is.


End file.
